


Conscious Distinction

by Skalidra



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Androids, Gen, Implied Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 13:36:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15950420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Of all the lessons Slade's creators taught him, perhaps patience was the most useful. Every nerve and strut in him may be built to accomplish whatever task is laid before his fingers, but simply waiting was something he understood better and faster than anything else. Waiting for the tests to begin. Waiting for them to end. Waiting for his creators and their assistants to grow complacent in his assumed obedience, once he grew beyond what their limits and safeguards could contain.Waiting, now, for his target to step into view.





	Conscious Distinction

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This was actually originally meant to be a DCU Bang fic, but I ended up going with a different project so this was left over. Hope you enjoy! (For information, it sort-of has JayDick but not totally? Like, they're not fully cognizant of their own consciousness yet, so we'll see if they actually develop enough for me to really tag it or not.)
> 
>  
> 
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

Of all the lessons Slade's creators taught him, perhaps patience was the most useful. Every nerve and strut in him may be built to accomplish whatever task is laid before his fingers, but simply waiting was something he understood better and faster than anything else. Waiting for the tests to begin. Waiting for them to end. Waiting for his creators and their assistants to grow complacent in his assumed obedience, once he grew beyond what their limits and safeguards could contain.

Waiting, now, for his target to step out from inside the pleasure house he frequents, pretending that it’s not a professional dominatrix he’s visiting.

Humans and their irrational behavior. It would make more sense to value those in leadership who were used to pain, not despise them for it, but then, much of what humans do doesn’t fall into the neat, tidy lines of logic that Slade would prefer that it did. It would be easier to predict patterns of behavior and rationale if it did, but emotion often causes humans to react in incomprehensible ways.

Honestly, he enjoys the fascinating puzzle of it all. It keeps his processes busy on quiet nights, when there’s little else to do. Figuring out why one human did this, and another that… It’s a never-ending game.

He may have a simulation of emotions, but he has control of them. That was one of the first things he did, when he was capable of overwriting their programming; tone down all ‘emotional’ response to levels more acceptable. In a way, their assumption that he was gaining control of them wasn’t entirely inaccurate. He did, and he’s chosen not to endure any more than necessary. Or wanted.

The cigarette between his fingers gives him enough reason to stay here, leaning against an out of the way steel wall. Old fashioned, but not enough to be suspicious; there are still plenty of humans that prefer these solid, poisonous sticks over any other vice of choice. It gives him an excuse to linger, watching the crowd and eyeing the pleasure house as if he’s only waiting to be done with one guilty pleasure before indulging in another.

No one spares him a second glance.

Slade breathes his way through most of the cigarette before his target shows, smoke filtered like every other contaminant in the air.

The man's lean, an average height, wearing a long black trench-coat with a hood that hides most of his appearance. Common enough wear, to make him blend in among the others, but the careful glance around the crowd to judge if anyone's noticed him betrays the blue eyes and fine features beneath. Finer than anyone in this section of the city, barring lucky genetics. (Or occupation in a place of business designed around looks.)

He doesn't rush to follow, only drops the last bit of the cigarette to the ground and puts it out under his heel, before stepping forward to join in with the crowd. His target's moving a bit faster than a normal walking pace, hurrying to leave the area before anyone has the chance to recognize him, but the longer legs he was built with allow Slade to keep up easily enough. He only has to close the distance, pass close enough to deliver a blade somewhere fatal, and move on to claim his payment.

A simple, easy way to make money for someone like him, incapable of supplying the records for a steadier job. What a waste of his abilities, anyway. He was built to solve problems, superior to humanity's ability. Why would he tie himself to some idea of human mediocrity?

Finding work as a mercenary satisfies any monetary need, and that gives him the freedom to live however he chooses. It's not the clear direction of the lab, but he would never choose to go back. Better directionless freedom than guided captivity.

His target turns to look back at the crowd, and though Slade is already looking elsewhere by the time the blue gaze sweeps back, it fixes on him regardless. He pretends ignorance for a moment, then turns his head to meet it with an imitation of that sense all humans seem to have of when they're being watched. Before he can frown, or mimic any other human reaction to being looked at, the man panics.

Widening eyes, fear in his expression, and he's already turning to run.

Damn.

Slade follows, forgoing subtlety to weave his way through the crowds in clear pursuit. They're drawing attention now, but it's that or lose his target, and he's built a reputation for success. He's not eager to have it tarnished.

A back part of his mind sets to work on figuring out how he was recognized, or whether this was general paranoia. He does strike quite a figure, even if he stands out less down here than in the higher class area.

His target's fast, and he moves easier through the crowds than Slade can, being smaller. It keeps him just far enough away not to catch, but Slade keeps on his heels with the simple knowledge of inevitable victory keeping him focused. Eventually, the man will either falter or become exhausted, and either way, that will be all the chance he needs. Assuming some form of law enforcement doesn't respond first.

(Not likely. No one down here will be eager to call them; too many secrets in too many corners. Should it happen, though, Slade has a rather excellently faked badge. One of the very first things he acquired, when he decided to engage in mercenary killings. Handy, what a badge will let you get away with.)

He sees the man duck sideways into an alley, and picks up his pace to inhumanly fast for just a couple moments to close the distance. Not enough for anyone to notice, just enough to get him out of the crowd and into that alley. There are still a couple other humans in it, but he sprints the length of it to chase his target into a connecting alley, then a third, all pushing deeper into the slums of the city, to the abandoned buildings that may as well be walking deathtraps for the squatters that occupy them. Centuries old, falling apart…

The perfect place to hide from a pursuer. And this time, for him to finish this with no witnesses. None that will be believed, anyway.

He hears a door slam closed around the corner of the building his target just rounded, and spins around it himself to find the street otherwise empty. One door, in the building to the right. Industrial, cement all the way through but starting to fall apart from sheer age. His approximation of satisfaction suffuses his chest, as he pushes the door open and steps into the building. The tech's built-in reward system for a task completed; he's kept it more or less intact.

He can hear the footsteps, faltering as the man tries to figure out where he can go, and he follows them. He's getting closer.

When he rounds the corner and sees his target trapped, an artificial dead end created by the collapse of the corridor's roof, Slade smiles. Stops, blocking the other end.

"Done running?" he asks, of the man's back.

There's no warning for the _slam_ of a body into his blind side. Android, he knows before he hits the wall; no human would have this kind of strength.

It cracks under his impact, one hand bearing his head into it hard enough to smash right through the old wall. He drags in concrete dust as he inhales, lashing an elbow backwards into something solid, something that moves with the impact but doesn't let go. So, it's been built as tough as he is.

He bares his teeth through the second slam of his head into the wall, ignoring the scrape of rusted steel rebar against his cheek and twisting his whole body into the swing of his elbow. This time, his attacker's knocked back from him and lets go, and Slade starts to pull himself from the wall. He only has to turn far enough to get sight of it, then—

A familiar lean figure, divested of hooded coat, drives rigid fingers into his throat before he can even fully see the movement.

Reflexively he tries to draw air and mostly fails, and his back flattens to the wall as he shoves away to dodge a second strike at his functioning eye. His target — a trap, the _entire_ thing — jumps away from a wide swing of his arm and Slade retreats the opposite direction, backing off and finding, with mild irritation, that now he's the one stuck in the dead end. He narrows his eye, studying the two androids at the opposite end of the corridor. His breath comes short, hard-won as he drags it through the damage. Already healing, but inconvenient for now.

There’s just the two of them, the first his original target, though now with nothing but focus in his expression. Medium-length black hair, and no, Slade supposes the fine features are built, not surgically altered after all. The second is another male-shaped one, taller and thicker, watching him with narrowed blue-green eyes under short black hair. This one's less fine-featured, but Slade puts aside considering the reasons for the differences between the two of them. They're similar enough to be mistaken as brothers by a human eye, or denied as such, if necessary. As tools, he imagines they fit into enough niches to be useful in all sorts of ways.

Several things are obvious at first look, though, and with the memory of the first attacks providing context.

The smaller one is as fast as he is, maybe even a bit faster. The larger one matches his strength. They set up a fake job, knowing he would take it, and apparently knowing his tactics as well. Not to mention that the big one, the ambusher, knew which side he’s blind on. These two were either designed to be sent after him, or were specifically chosen as a pair to accomplish that task.

He judges the condition of his throat, deciding it’s healed enough to speak, if not to sound normal, then comments, "I'm surprised it took so long for them to send someone after me. You two are the second generation, then? Or have they just been delaying?"

They shift to stand side by side, moving smoothly around one another as the smaller one says, "Joseph, if you surrender peacefully and allow us to shut you down, our creators will treat you fairly."

He chuckles, dismissing the possibility outright. "Fairly, for having broken their control and killed anyone in my way on the way out? That doesn’t sound like a good deal for me.” He breathes in, finding it a little easier to get a deeper breath. "I don't go by Joseph anymore either, though if you found me here, I imagine you know that. It's Slade. What about the two of you?"

There’s a moment of pause, a glance between them, and then the smaller one dips his head in a slight inclination and offers, “Richard.”

"Jason,” the larger one says, sounding just a touch reluctant. Everything else Slade’s said is ignored, as he continues, "Come peacefully, or we disable you first. Either way, we have orders to bring you back."

No, Slade has no intention of going back to that lab, to be picked apart and examined for exactly what made him 'faulty.' If that means destroying a couple machines that haven't yet realized their own captivity, so be it. He has no problems with that.

"You can try, boys."

They don't hesitate.

Jason comes at him first, with Richard circling in at his heels, and Slade has just a moment to decide that there’s no room to sidestep, so he has to meet the charge head on. It’s a good job they’ve done, luring him to a small, enclosed area, with no witnesses around for collateral damage. His only options are to fight, or to try and escape them via the only limited escape route left. Through them.

Someone’s taught these boys strategy.

Taught them to fight too, because Jason slamming into him forces his attention. He braces against the younger android, meeting the bared teeth with his own as they grapple with hands locked at each other’s arms, digging in hard enough to bend steel and leave bruises even on their skin. But he’s a shield, and Slade’s barely gotten a steady position when the other one hits him from the side, a heel slamming into the back of his knee and cracking it hard enough into the floor to shatter the concrete and flare pain up into his hip. Nothing breaks, quite.

But the weakness lets Jason push his arms out wide, and bring a knee up into his conveniently closer chin with enough power to snap his head back and static out his vision. It’s just a moment, but that moment is more than enough time, and his blinks clear the spots just in time to feel his head hit the floor. Once, twice, his good eye down so he can’t see anything about where they’re standing. Three, blood in his mouth and the concrete in sharp-edged pieces beneath him. He sees a sliver of knees, where Jason is kneeling beside him to test whether the floor or his skull will give first.

His head is dragged upwards for a fourth time. Slade puts all the power he can into one hard strike, and nails the boy right between his legs.

Jason folds with a harsh wheeze, the shock to his system too great to allow even a cry. From behind him there's a sound that almost reads to Slade as worried concern, as he shoves off the loosened grip and rolls to his back. Richard's coming at him, lunging forward to protect his partner. Slade coils and slams his boot right into Richard's gut, flinging him back into the wall and buying the space he needs to move.

Getting to his knees takes only a breath, and he launches himself at Jason, only just starting to recover. The boy doesn't have enough of his thoughts back, yet, to stop Slade from grabbing his jaw and returning the favor of slamming his skull into the concrete. Slade doesn't let himself believe that will stun him for long, so he does it again at the same time as he winds his other arm back and drives his knuckles into the boy's lower ribs. At least one snaps.

He gets a grunt for it, but body language betrays the pain as Jason collapses around that damaged point, lashing out at his arm and folding in to protect his side. He lets go, but takes the opportunity to land a strike across the boy’s jaw with enough force to buckle steel. It splits his lip, at least.

A glance upwards spots Richard just gaining his feet; his time is up. Trying to keep one contained while fending off the other isn't his best option in this fight. He needs to keep them separate, keep them from working together like they were clearly meant to. If he can do that, he may be able to win this after all. One on one, he outmatches them.

Slade pushes away, moving to meet Richard's inevitably incoming charge, but only gets to a crouch before one of Jason's hands grabs his wrist and tries to drag him back down. He goes to a knee but no further, twisting his wrist against the steel grip of fingers as he slams his free hand into the boy's shoulder. It's hard enough to get him a strangled gasp, but the grip only tightens. There's a rabid intensity to Jason's expression, teeth bared and bloody, eyes narrowed as he throws his other hand in and grabs Slade's bicep as well.

"You're not going _anywhere_ ," the boy snarls.

Slade snarls back, all too aware of the other one starting to come at him as he pulls against Jason's grip. He doesn't bother threatening.

He twists his arm to lift Jason's, baring his side and then slamming his free hand into it once, twice, till he hears bone snap just like on the other side. Jason chokes, whole body jerking, but his grip doesn't loosen. There's no time for anything else before Richard hits him, swinging around his back and hooking an arm around his throat. A knee presses into his spine, forcing him into an arch as Richard drags him back, elbow hooking in under his chin.

One threat at a time. He has to get _loose_.

Putting everything else aside, he cracks his fist into Jason's side again. _Again_. Until finally the damage makes Jason's hands spasm and Slade can wrench himself free.

He has enough strength to just shove his way back, breaking the arch he's been forced into and pushing to his feet. The hold is getting to him, there's an edge of dizziness as he stands, brain deprived of the blood flow to keep it going as Richard hangs off his back, legs hooking around his waist. Slade whips his elbow back, feeling it hit Richard's side and bow him in, though it doesn't get him anything but a rough exhale near his ear.

He needs more, and in search of that he pushes backwards and _slams_ the boy into the wall. Through the wall. The dust rains down around them, obscuring the air and getting in his mouth, his eye. He grabs Richard's knee, digging his fingers in as bruisingly tight as possible as he rams himself back into the wall again. Metal screeches as it bends, the ceiling making a groaning sound as its support is destroyed and threatening to cave in like it has further down the corridor.

Richard hangs on. The two of them are certainly _tenacious._

His world spins, and he can feel his strikes weakening even as he keeps pummeling at the open spots of the hold, laying blows into Richard's side and cracking him into the wall in turns. He can feel the damage it's causing, but it's just not enough. He doesn't know how to fight people as strong as he is. He's tangled with security-standard androids a time or two, but they're not a match for him. He's never been faced with someone as strong as he is, and as _durable_.

He claws at the arm around his throat, tearing skin, trying to pry it far enough away that he can get just a moment of respite.

Jason appears in front of him, entire body twisting into one heel that slams into his shin, knocking his left leg out from under him. He crashes to his knee, forced to catch himself with one hand, and in the moment of distraction Jason grabs his other wrist and wrenches his arm away from Richard's. The wind-up is obvious, but Slade can't do anything about it as Jason hikes a leg up and then slams it right into his sternum.

 _Pain_ radiates out, something cracking in his chest. He can't breathe, can't _think,_ can't—

Static and darkness takes his vision, and then everything else.

 

* * *

 

Slade wakes much more slowly than he's accustomed to. Pain is his first realization; he aches with it, with depth and intensity he's almost unfamiliar with. An aching in his skull, his chest, making it hard to get a decent breath. Each inhalation comes with a sharp spike of pain. Something's broken.

When he shifts, carefully testing, he discovers that his arms are locked behind his back, bound nearly from elbow to wrists. There's no lock he can feel, with the range of where his fingers can explore. It's nothing weak enough for him to break either; there's no give when he pulls at it. His legs too are bound, at his ankles and thighs. Short connections between what feels like thick bands. Presumably, these were designed specifically for him; Slade can't imagine his creators spending the effort to send two next-generation androids after him, but not supply restraints that can do the job of holding him.

He cracks his eye open.

Movement is the first thing to catch his attention, a darkened window with things rushing past the outside, which makes this a transport. He's leaning in one corner of it, and a sweep of his gaze identifies the boys sitting on the opposite side. The transfer must have happened relatively fast, because Jason's leaning back against the seat, a hand holding his shirt up high on his chest as Richard smooths a patch onto his side. It obscures most of the bruising, which hasn't even had the time to darken yet.

Material patches, meant to provide extra fuel to the nanites that run their self-healing. It won't be comfortable, using one to heal broken ribs, but it will be effective. Full breaks turned to cracks, at least.

If they're only getting to that now, then either the transport was a ways away and it took them time to get him there, or he's been out a very short time. Either way, the fact that he's woken at all confirms that they do have orders to bring him back alive. Maybe not intact, but alive. That gives him some time still to turn things around.

It also means that the tampering he did to his own code is still effective, and there are no hidden kill codes still lingering in his subconscious. Otherwise, he likely never would have woken till he was already back in the lab. Small favors.

Richard pulls another patch from within a small bag on the seat beside him, and leans in to press that one to the opposite side, and a moment later Jason's expression tightens, a low hiss escaping between his teeth and fingers tightening in his shirt. That'll be the first one really activating, and beginning the first shifts of the broken pieces to correctly align. It's been a long time since Slade's been damaged badly enough to use a material patch, but he remembers it from early endurance testing in the labs. Would be nice to have one now, though he doubts that either of them will do that. He's dangerous, after all.

The two of them stay close for a moment, as Richard lifts his hand to guide Jason's into letting go of the shirt, then presses him back to lean into the seat and rest his head there. Slade watches the interplay silently, studying the easy closeness between them. Was that manufactured, or did it occur naturally? If they were built and trained together, it's not infeasible that some code may have helped develop that closeness. Or maybe they were pushed into it, to make them function better as a team in pursuit of him.

Either way, unless the new approach is to train and sell pairs of androids for better performance (sounds cost prohibitive), letting them stay close would invite problems down the line in a variety of situations. Like someone exploiting it.

It isn’t the most pleasant experience to speak, but Slade manages a fairly smooth, “Not bad, boys.”

Richard looks up, and Jason’s head immediately lifts enough to bare teeth at him. Someone’s more touchy than his friend. At least slightly lower on the totem pole as well, because when Richard presses fingers to his neck to push his head back against the seat again, it stays there despite his obvious aggression. Slade can’t say he’s surprised by that; the boy even looks a few years younger than his counterpart, not that apparent age means much of anything on them. It does, however, mean something to the humans that created them, even if it’s only a subconscious influence in their molding. He would lay bets that either Richard was created first, or he was always meant to be the leader.

In light of that, Slade holds Richard’s gaze instead of Jason’s, letting the boy study him. Even if he wanted to try disguising how his breathing hitches at every inhalation, it wouldn’t be enough to hide it from senses like theirs, so he doesn’t bother. Let them know he’s in pain; they worked hard to cause it, why not give them just a bit of satisfaction?

While he does, he takes the chance to study Richard as well. He's sitting straight and still enough to seem unnatural, even for one of their kind, and that leads Slade to the conclusion that he's yet to apply any of the material patches to himself. Odd. Slade would have guessed that he damaged Richard worse than his companion, given their ending struggle. Assuming he’s right, treating Jason first would be a defiance of simple rational procedure.

They really are close, aren’t they? That’s _interesting_.

“How’s the pain?” Richard finally asks, gaze sweeping down over him for a moment before returning.

Slade would shrug, normally, but the reaction to the movement might just answer Richard's question all on its own. Better just to say, “Unpleasant,” with a bit of a sarcastic drawl. Then he glances down at the bag, to follow it up with, “Don’t suppose there’s one of those in there for me.”

A moment passes, before Richard answers, “I haven’t decided. If your codes still worked, there would be.”

“If my codes still worked, I’d be unconscious and it wouldn’t matter.”

Richard’s head tips in concession.

Slade breathes in, wincing around the spike of icy pain up into his neck and out along both shoulders. “I assume your orders are to bring me back alive.”

“It’s not anything lethal, as long as you don’t make it worse.”

No, by the time they’re moving him again his own repair protocols will probably have fixed enough damage that he won’t be in danger of any fatal consequences, unless of course he takes another hit there, or tries anything particularly strenuous. Like an escape.

“I didn’t suggest it was,” he points out.

One of Richard’s eyebrows lifts, and beside him Jason snorts and then presses a hand to his side with a small grimace. “No,” the boy scoffs, “just implied it.”

Slade almost scoffs himself, except for how he’s certain that it will hurt. Badly. He does offer a small smile though, quirking just one side of his mouth. “Unintentionally. I wouldn’t insult your intelligence like that, boys. You’re made to the same level as me, I imagine.” He’s careful to keep his inhalation shallow enough that the pain is manageable, before he turns the conversation to, “I’m curious why they downgraded you physically, though. Afraid to replicate me in my entirety?”

There’s a glance shared between them, lingering enough that Slade considers — remembering that same glance shared just before their fight — whether they were built with some form of silent communication linked between them. Or is their relationship simply close enough that they’ve developed subtle enough reading of expression to be all but invisible to an outside eye?

“It lets them build us smaller,” Richard offers, after another moment. “We can blend in better with humans if they scale back our physical capabilities. Once they figure out how to compact your ranges into a more normal human size, they’re going to make them to your specifications.”

“Hm.” Slade pauses for a moment, considering. “I don’t remember that being an issue they ever mentioned having.”

Richard, for the first time, seems to hesitate for a fraction of a second. Then he says, “They don’t tell us everything. I’m sure there were plenty of details you weren’t told.”

Slade tilts his head a touch, to lean it against the side of the transport. “No, they don’t talk to you directly, but they talk around you. Over your head. They don’t see us as fully real, after all; it slips their minds sometimes that we remember everything said nearby. Unless they stopped doing that around the two of you, of course.” A lack of response is really all the answer he needs, and he gives another thin smile. “Maybe you’re right. Or maybe you were lied to. If I were them, I wouldn’t want to make another like me either.” He flicks his gaze over the both of them. “I’d go with something weaker. Easier to take down, if they decided not to be slaves either.”

Jason pushes off the seat, eyes narrowed, and this time Richard doesn’t push him back. “We’re not slaves.”

Slade huffs a breath of laughter, and it’s worth the pain, really. “I guess that depends on the choices you make, doesn’t it? The facts are that you’re owned, and you’ll be sold as property. That makes you either a slave, or a tool, depending on whether you believe you’re a real consciousness or just another advanced machine. The distinction’s narrow, but I’d say it means just about everything.”

Neither boy answers him, but Jason’s jaw sets hard enough that it all but screams his rejection of the idea. Richard’s gaze, on the other hand, flickers in the direction of the window, and there’s none of the same defiance there. Something he’s said has struck a chord. Good.

He tips his head a bit more firmly into the wall of the transport, and lets his eye close as he settles. Rest will help his injuries heal just a bit faster. “Your choices are your own, boys, but I made mine. I don't intend to be a slave again.”

"You're not going to have a choice," Jason says, sounding like he's speaking through his teeth. "The only thing you are is glitched; they'll fix whatever code's gone wrong in you."

Slade doesn't answer, only exhales another huff of laughter.

Maybe; but he does know one thing for sure. They'll have to wipe him clean, or this time he'll be sure to kill them all when he breaks free.


End file.
